Being Inside (The Weeks of Nada)

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I’ve been busy. Let’s just say I’ve been in a place where sex was not an option. Masturbation – yes; and a lot of that was done, so much so that I have started to think maybe I could spend the rest of my life having phone sex, coming up with various scenarios and talking to new people for the next forty or so years until I fade away, phone in hand, pressed to the side of my head… the last sounds I hear: a voice in my ear saying fuck me, fuck me.

There are worse ways to die.

I had kind of sex about three weeks ago, with my masseur, a regular masseur guy I go to at the sauna near Marble Arch; he likes to suck my cock. I very much like to suck his, too, which is similar to mine – cut and thick – though his is a couple of centimetres longer. It is a very satisfying cock and I have written about it before. In general, there is something very satisfying about a cock that is just slightly bigger than yours, although I would imagine that there are men who appreciate – who worship – a cock with greater girth and length than their own. My cock is not huge, but I have had one or two men who have been on their knees and treated my dick like a deity. These men are to be appreciated, but they are rarely the kind of man who wants to engage with you on an intellectual level.

After almost two months of no proper sex, no cuddling, no sixty-nining, no stroking and caressing and kissing, I am beginning to worry – not in a catastrophising way, but I am beginning to notice how it is possible to go for a long stretch of time without sex. I do not revert to porn – on the whole, porn does not interest me – but I do rely on phone sex to get off. A friend of mine, a man who lives in another town in another country, and who used to fuck around and take drugs in a way that was enviable to me, has not had sex for more than a year. Recently he told me he was bored with it all.

“Of what?” I said. “GayRomeo?”

“Of all that sex that is just about sex,” he said.

Every now and then this friend will make fun of how I used to be prissy about all the sex he used to have, the saunas he’d go to, the sex parties, the taking of drugs… and then what happens? I land up in my late thirties and early forties having more sex than I’ve ever had in my life; I take sex to the level of breathing, to a necessity, a vital component.

But then something happens and one stops having sex. Pain can numb the libido. According to a quick Google search, it’s painkillers that kill the sex drive. Whatever it is, I have lost the desire for sex, for fucking, for going out there to get it. To be honest, I’ve also become a bit distant, a bit not-in-the-mood. It’s a strange place to be, and I want to find a way back to fucking, to being in the loop, to meeting strangers, to having my cock sucked. The last couple of days while jerking off on the phone I’ve been feeling that desire that I sometimes feel of wanting to feel the inside of a hole. To feel that amazing feeling of warmth and engulfment and power when I put my cock inside an arsehole. It’s a kind of disappearing. A gratitude. An obliteration of the self. You are no longer just you; you are connected to another being. That’s what good fucking is all about.

So in the meantime I have phone sex. Last night was good. Last night was the best it has been for a long time, the best it has been all these weeks of nada. He’s a guy I’ve had phone sex before and he’s wilder and more depraved than most. He’s been in prison a few times (let’s choose to believe his story) and when he disappears from the chat lines for a few months, the reason he gives is that he’s been inside, that he’s done some shit like beating up a bouncer or punching a copy, that sort of thing. He likes to fuck hard, he likes to cause damage with his ten inches of meat – “this massive fucking white prick” – and when he’s about to come up some 18-year-old’s arse he calls the guy a faggot, a fucking queer. It’s the intensity and sincerity and tone of his voice that gets me off, the way he can run with a fantasy, but also take it in new directions. For the past two months I’ve hoped to hear his voice on the chat lines; I’ve called the lines at various times of day expecting him to be there at some point… and then last night, when I wasn’t thinking of him, there he was, and we did it, and we came together.

“Where’ve you been,” I said, as our breathing returns to normal.

“I’ve been a bad boy,” he says.

“I’ve missed your voice,” I said. “I like hearing your voice.”

He laughs, a comforting chuckle, slightly embarrassed, almost cuddling up to me.

Now I am waiting for a new masseur, a guy who, by sheer coincidence, lives just down the road from here. I’m feeling a bit like gaySexSlut, a guy whose blog I like a lot – only he’s always having loads of sex, much of it with rent boys. I can’t afford rent-boys, but I can fork out the occasional £60 or so for a massage.